


The Caning

by Tailkinker



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Caning, CollarVerse, Confined/Caged, Gen, Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tailkinker/pseuds/Tailkinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU add-on to the CollarVerse universe created by Oflymonddreams. In that universe House is a slave, but still holds his canonical position at PPTH. A guide to the CollarVerse can be found <a href="http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8203524/1/Chronology-of-the-Collarverse">here</a>.</p><p> In this story - After being rude to a patient in the clinic, and refusing to apologise, Greg is sent by Brenda Previn to be caned.</p><p> </p><p>Warnings for : references to past child abuse, caning, caging, humiliation, slavery concepts, mentions of non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caning

_Greg was bent over the side of his bed, kneeling on the floor, his pants and undershorts down around his ankles. His father stood behind him, slapping his belt into his palm. Greg wished he would just get on with it, but he knew the lecture had to come first._

_"You're a disgrace to this family, and to me, Greg. You're rude, you're insolent and you're lazy. You'll never amount to anything in this world unless you smarten yourself up. You need to learn some manners."_

_Greg tensed, waiting for the first blow but his father wasn't finished yet._

_"Well boy, I've been talking to you. I told you you need to learn some manners, now what do you say?"_

_"Yes, sir," he muttered, head down, hating the man with every fibre of his being._

_"I can't hear you."_

_Fuck you, Greg thought to himself. "Yes, sir!" he said loudly._

_"Good. Now count."_

_The belt came down on his unprotected buttocks and he screamed at the pain, tears immediately filling his eyes. As the sting receded and the burn started he choked out the words his father was waiting for._

_"One, thank you, sir."_

* * *

He's exhausted. He wrapped up a complex case the day before, after working on it for two weeks, with the patient circling the drain the whole time. The final, and correct, diagnosis, came well into the evening and he had crashed onto his cot in the diagnostics office without even bothering to strip off his clothes or eat. At eight this morning he'd reported for his usual four hour morning clinic shift. He hadn't gone down to breakfast at the slave canteen, a miserable experience at the best of times, but had just dragged himself here.

Now, four hours later, his shift is finally finished and he is looking forward to a break. The fellows all have the day off, thanks to Cuddy,. in recognition of their hard work over the last two weeks. He can put his feet up in his office and catch a sleep in his chair, hopefully escaping anyone's notice.

He tidies up the exam room and makes his way to the clinic desk to log out. The staff are used to him here, he's literally part of the furniture of the place. They don't chat to him, or offer him any pleasantries, but they leave him alone and that's all he can ask for.

"Greg!"

He turns reluctantly at the summons. Brenda Previn is standing by the desk, an annoyed look on her face, directed at him.

"Julian Morrow," she says, and he stares at her blankly, he has no idea who that is. "Two patients ago. You refused to test him for diabetes."

Ah, now he remembers. "Because he didn't have diabetes. Didn't want to waste clinic resources. Can I go? My shift finished two minutes ago." He turns to go in the hopes that she'll let him, he's _tired_ , and in pain, and he doesn't need this.

"Stay where you are, Greg." There it is, the tone of authority in her voice. The surety of someone who knows that they are free, and he is a slave, and he has to obey their orders. Brenda Previn has always treated him fairly, has made sure that he is able to do his job without harassment but she has also always been very aware that he is a slave, and only a slave, and has never let him forget that she is in charge.

He stops moving and faces her, bracing himself on his cane. She won't hit him, he tells himself, nobody is supposed to do that without authority. Still, it is always best to be prepared.

"Mr Morrow says you were rude to him, he's waiting in the office for an apology. Let's go."

He looks towards the tiny office Brenda uses. He can just see the back of the man, sitting upright in a chair.

"He's a moron, he hasn't got any of the symptoms. I didn't need to test him to know he hasn't got diabetes."

"I know that, but you also didn't need to be rude to him. Go and apologize and then you can leave."

A quick apology, faking sincerity and he can go and lie down in his office, put his aching leg up and escape into sleep for as long as he can manage without anyone catching him sleeping during work hours. He nods and goes towards the office, Previn following him.

The man stands up as he enters, turning towards him expectantly. Greg feels his hackles rise, just as they had in the exam room. This man is a bully. He knows the type.

"I hope you have something to say to me Doctor, or I'll be suing the ass off this hospital. I've never been spoken to like that need to learn some manners."

He's silent and the man crosses his arms impatiently, moving closer to him.

"Well? What do you have to say? I'm waiting."

"You don't have diabetes," he says flatly.

"You didn't even test me, I'm your patient, you should do what I say. People like me keep you employed here. And I wasn't talking about your professional incompetence, I was talking about your lack of respect. You owe me an apology. I'm not going to wait forever."

House looks at Nurse Previn who is looking back at him with warning in her eyes and then he looks back at the man. Defiantly he raises his chin and looks the man in the eyes.

"I'm sorry you don't have diabetes. Keep eating the donuts and sitting on your ass all day and you'll put on a few stones and then you might get diabetes. Come see me then."

The man moves towards him, his fist raised and Nurse Previn steps in front of him.

"That's enough! Doctor House, you may leave, please wait for me at the desk. Mr Morrow... "

He doesn't hear what else she has to say, he quickly slips out the door and makes his way to the clinic desk. For one moment he thinks about keeping going, up to diagnostics and the illusion of safety it represents but he would only be forcibly extracted from there. After a couple of minutes Morrow storms out, clearly not satisfied with whatever Nurse Previn has said to him.

The nurse comes out of the office, glances at him and shakes her head and then signals to a security guard who comes over.

"Please take Greg down to the basement. Tell whoever is on duty that he's been insolent to a patient."

"Yes ma'am, do you want him brought straight back here afterwards?"

"No, he's finished his shift. He doesn't have a patient at the moment but he has an evening shift starting at six. I want him back here in time for that."

Nurse Previn walks away without another glance at him, clearly already moving on to the next task.

* * *

He's told to take off his labcoat and rolltop as soon as they set foot in the basement and the clothes are taken away from him. He's not allowed to hide his collar down here, not allowed to pretend he's anything other than a slave. He's walked to a familiar office and the guard takes him inside.

The supervisor on duty, Mr Wilkins, looks up as they enter and frowns.

"Back again so soon, Greg? I'm disappointed in you." He turns to the guard, "have him strip and leash him up over there. What has he done this time?"

The guard pulls him over to the wall and produces a leash from his belt.

"Insolent to a patient. Nurse Previn asked to have him back at the clinic by six."

The guard turns to him. "Strip off, boy, and be quick about it."

He stands there for a moment, his mind going blank. A few minutes ago he was a doctor, seeing patients, being entrusted with people's lives. Sure, he was a slave as well, he's always a slave, but nobody up there can order him to strip off, they have to treat him with a little respect in front of the patients. Here, the order to strip is so routine, so basic to them, that they're looking at him in surprise that he's not immediately taking his clothes off.

The guard puts his hand on the baton strapped to his hip and makes a move forward. If he doesn't strip himself they'll do it for him and there'll be further punishment on top of that he's already 'earned'.

Reluctantly he takes off his t-shirt and then pushes his jeans down. When he steps out of his undershorts and he's exposed before them he feels himself becoming the slave they all think he is. He drops his head, staring at the floor. He feels fingers at his collar, pushing it against his skin and hears the click as the leash is fixed to it. He knows the other end will go to the ring on the wall. The guard cuffs him on the shoulder and he kneels obediently. He assumes the correct position, the position that was drummed into him so many years ago that he has never forgotten. Hands behind his back, knees slightly spread, head down. Once he could kneel like this for hours, motionless, waiting for a word of command, now this position hurts his bad leg, and he grits his teeth against the pain, shifting uncomfortably, trying to lessen the burn of his abused thigh muscles.

"Stop fidgeting, boy." Mr Wilkins orders and the guard reinforces his order with a cuff to back of his head. He stays still, biting his lip against the pain and the guard pats him on the head. House jerks his head away but the guard just laughs and gives him another cuff to the back of the head before he leaves, his job done.

There's silence in the office for a while, broken only by the tap of Mr Wilkin's fingers on the computer keyboard. He knows that the man is deliberately keeping him waiting, that this is part of the punishment, just as making him strip was. When Greg first came here, in those first two nightmarish weeks before he was moved upstairs to diagnostics, he'd been caned a couple of times. It had been quick; drop your pants, lean over the desk, get caned and get back to work. Mrs Foster hadn't liked to cut into a slave's working time.

As far as the staff here are concerned Greg has nowhere to be until six, they can take their time over his punishment. Greg wonders if the supervisors had formed a strategy after the last time he was caned, some sort of plan to control him better and the stripping is part of it. He imagines what would happen if one of the fellows were to see him like this, down here, or even Wilson. What is they were to come in here, see him leashed, naked, to a hook on the wall, kneeling submissively on the floor? One day Wilson will realise that Greg occasionally gets caned, and he'll want to be here, to watch. Greg shudders at the thought.

"Head up, Greg," he hears the command and lifts his head. Mr Wilkins is standing in front of him, cane in hand. It's one of the heaviest canes, this is going to hurt.

"Do you have anything to say, Greg?"

"The man was a moron, I just told him the truth." He says, unable to stop himself, he knows he's just marking it worse for himself.

Mr Wilkins sighs. "You've been spoiled, Greg. You were a good slave when you first came here, by all accounts. Now you think that you are better than you are, that you are special. You're not. Tell me what you are, Greg."

He knows what he's supposed to say but his throat chokes on the words. He doesn't want to say it. He _can't_ say it.

"I'm a doctor," he says instead, knowing it's the wrong answer.

Wilkins taps the cane against Greg's bare thigh, close to the hideous scar and Greg flinches. "That's what you do, Greg, it's not what you are. Now tell me what you are, and we can get this over with. If you won't then you can kneel there for another hour."

Another hour of this and his leg will be cramping and he'll be in agony for days. He blanks his mind, reaches down into that part of him that surrendered to this long ago and says the words.

"I'm a slave, sir," he whispers, staring back at the ground.

"That's right, Greg. You're just a slave, just like all the other slaves down here. You're not better than them, you're not special. You're a slave because you lacked discipline, you couldn't take care of yourself. Now look at me and say it again, louder. "What are you?"

He forces his head up and says it again, robot like, his voice firmer. "I"m a slave, sir."

Mr Wilkins nods. "Good, now let's see if we can make you remember that. Get up and bend over the desk."

Mr Wilkins reaches up and unhooks his leash, holding it in his hand while Greg struggles to his feet, his right leg almost collapses underneath him but the supervisor stands patiently while Greg stumbles over to the desk and then bends over it. He grips the edge of the desk and lowers his body towards the surface, he sticks his ass out and spreads his legs when Mr Wilkins instructs him to.

He's naked and the door is open so anyone passing along the corridor will have a nice view of him getting his ass caned. He curses himself for his stubbornness, he could have been asleep by now, tucked into his bunk out of sight. Escaping from all this for a few hours.

"After every stroke you will count and then tell me what you are, Greg. It will help you remember, and maybe we can avoid doing this again next week."

"Yes, sir," he mutters, his buttocks clenching in anticipation of the pain to come. He tries to relax them, knowing it will hurt more if he doesn't.

There's a pause, a long pause, and then there's the sound of the cane swishing through the air and a line of fire forms across his buttocks, burning deeply. Every time it hurts more than he would think possible. Every time catches him by surprise. At least it always makes his leg feel better. His hands grip the edges of the desk tighter and he flexes onto his toes and releases his breath in a strangled gasp. He wishes Mrs Foster hadn't retired, she was skilled with the cane but she could never hit as hard as a man.

"I'm waiting, Greg."

And she didn't make some stupid drama out of it either.

"One," he counts, hoping that will do.

There's another line of fire across his backside and he hisses at the surprise.

"We won't move off one until you say it, Greg."

There's no hope, no escaping, just get it over with, he tells himself. Just make the pain stop.

"One, I'm a slave, sir."

"Excellent."

Mr Wilkins continues to five, each blow landing near to the last, sending a wave of agony through him. His face reddens and he gulps air in between strikes, trying not to cry.

"Five, I'm a slave, sir."

The phone rings and Mr Wilkins goes around to the front of the desk to answer it. He sits down in his comfortable seat and leans back as Greg stares down at the surface of the desk.

"Oh, hi dear, no, nothing important, how is your day going?"

He talks for a while, chatting about their kids, the dog. The dinner they are going to tonight. Mr Wilkins is going to pick up a bottle of wine, drop the kids at the sitter. Normal stuff, the things normal people do. The things that people who aren't slaves do. While Mr Wilkins is having his nice dinner Greg will be doing his clinic shift, his second of the day, his ass burning from these cane strokes. He shifts from foot to foot, shivering as his naked body reacts to the trauma it has experienced. Any more strokes are going to hurt like hell after this delay. He becomes acutely aware of his position, ass stuck out in the air, legs spread, genitals hanging down between them, there's a laugh from outside in the corridor, it must be change of slave shift, he can hear the trample of many feet going past. Can imagine them all sneaking glances at 'crazy Greg' getting his ass caned. The red lines already there for them all to see. He hears a guard telling a slave to 'move along' and can imagine the guard getting a good eyeful. He stares down at the desk and waits for Mr Wilkins to finish his call, to have time to finish punishing Greg.

It's an eternity before the supervisor tells his wife that he loves her and gets back up. There's no word of apology to Greg, no acknowledgement of the delay. The man who just seconds ago was chatting about his pet dog takes the cane and adds another red line to the collection across Greg's buttocks. He's gone cold and it hurts worse than ever.

"Six, I'm... I'm a s..s.., sir," he stutters.

He hopes that's it, six is a nice round number surely? He doesn't dare straighten just in case, he waits, still bent over the desk.

"Stand up, Greg and face me."

He straightens up, turns around and faces Mr Wilkins. The man is still holding the cane, tapping it lightly on the ground. He's holding the other end of Greg's leash. He's still dressed of course and Greg feels ashamed to be standing there naked in front of him, exposed, his scar on display. He knows there are tears in his eyes.

"Thank you, sir," he says, hoping that will keep Mr Wilkins happy and then he'll be able to go. He tries to sound contrite enough.

"You have important work to do in this hospital, Greg. The hospital paid a lot of money for you, and they are entitled to have that work done efficiently and with no rudeness on your behalf. This is the third time in eight weeks you've been down here to be disciplined. I'm going to recommend you be sent back for retraining."

He freezes at the words, _sent back for retraining_. Going back to the Slave Centre, to spend more time crouched in a cage, more time as an object, a thing, a nothing. Tied up to a table while people... Without conscious thought he falls to his knees and bends his head.

"Sir, please don't. I'll do better, sir." He hates the words that come tumbling out of his mouth, hates being like this but anything is better than that. He can't go there. He can't.

"Be quiet, Greg." Mr Wilkins steps out of the office and calls a guard over. "Put Greg in the cage until it's time for his shift upstairs. He needs to be at the clinic by six, dressed ready for work. See that he apologises to Nurse Previn before you leave him there."

Without another word he hands his leash over to the guard who whistles at Greg.

"On your feet, boy."

He gets up, looking back at Mr Wilkins but the man has already turned back to his work, making notes in a file that Greg knows is his. As he leaves the office he hears him pick up the phone and ask for an appointment with Doctor Cuddy.

The guard walks him, still naked, down the corridor. There's a smattering of slaves still going to the showers, or the canteen and he feels their eyes on him, glancing at the red lines that mark him. They hate him as much as he hates them. He smells them, it's near the end of the week so they are in dirty sweaty clothes. He's not like them.

But he is, the collar around his neck marks him as one of them. He's always a few words away from being back here, living with them, a cleaning rag in his hand, dirty stained clothing on his body.

He's taken to the cage in the security office and told to get in. He does, head down, crawling on all fours, like an animal. The door closes behind him and he lies down on his side, curled up, he can't stretch out, there's no room. The guard bangs on the top of the cage.

"Don't make a mess," he says and then goes to sit down. There's another guard at the security monitors and they both glance idly at Greg.

"Shame he's tagged. He gave the best blow jobs in the hospital, he really got into it. Couldn't get enough. You couldn't fuck him, he'd squeal like a pig, but that tongue of his... look at him, he'd like to do it now, wouldn't you, boy? With your ass all nice and red like that." He rubs his hand on his groin, thrusting it suggestively towards Greg. Greg stares at them both with wide eyes, he can't, he's tagged by Wilson, he doesn't think they'll try to use him but he's not sure. He cringes back against the bars of the cage, curling up even more. He wants to go back upstairs, back to his office, where he is safe.

They both laugh and turn back to the monitors.

The slave lies in the cage, staring out of the bars, shivering. If he's very good and very quiet maybe they won't send him back for retraining, maybe they'll let him stay.

* * *

He's let out of the cage and clothing is thrust into his hands. He stands still until a guard barks at him, telling him to get dressed. The rolltop and labcoat feel foreign in his hands and he struggles to put them on over his other clothes.

He walks through the hospital next to a guard, his head down, making himself small, making himself invisible. When they stop he keeps staring at the ground until he hears her voice.

"Greg?" she sounds angry and he cringes. If he's bad, if he does the wrong thing they'll send him back. He looks up, tries to show her that he is good now. He's a good boy.

The guard puts a heavy hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake.

"Something you need to say to Nurse Previn, boy?"

"I'm sorry I was rude, Nurse Previn." He tries to go to his knees but the guard grips his elbow firmly.

Nurse Previn stares at him, narrowing her eyes. Then she glances over at the office. "Mr Morrow is waiting in there for an apology, Greg. Are you ready to do that?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says and then realises he's said the wrong thing. "I mean, yes, Nurse Previn."

"Come with me then. You can go," she says, confusing him before Greg realises she's dismissing the guard, he feels relief at the guard leaving. He won't be going back immediately then.

He stands still while his former patient launches into another tirade about him, threatening to have him fired. One part of his brain laughs at the irony, how can he be fired when he earns no pay? But then he thinks of how easily he could be sent from here, sold, disposed of, it would only take a change of regime. Maybe someone would decide that the slave was more trouble than he was worth. _Send you back for retraining..._

When Mr Morrow pauses for breath Greg apologises.

The End


End file.
